Threadbare
by London Romance
Summary: One-sided Stan/Kyle. "Clichés, in reality, never go anywhere. And I'm just another one to toss aside."


This is usually how the story goes.

Two people meet and then the rest is up to them. They might love or hate each other. They might love or hate the wrong people until they realize, "wow, I'm in love with (insert other person's name here)." Or they have that little spark of "we'd be better together, but oh crap, there's (insert ridiculously simple or over-the-top obstacle)."

But this story is about me and him. We've known each other forever. If I were a girl (Beyonce's got nothing on me), I'd be the best friend who sticks around even though the guy can't open his eyes and see what is _so_ _freaking obvious_ to everyone else.

The most overdone movie cliché.

Clichés, in reality, never go anywhere. They're the same, boring, manufactured words we string together to make any type of sense when we go through an impossible situation.

But I'm not in a movie. I'm just another cliché.

I'm scared of what'll come after all the 'realizing your feelings towards your super best friend aren't just platonic' crap. I desperately hope happily-ever-after happens just this one time, even though I can't remember that ever happening outside of romantic comedies, fairytales, and other stuff girls substitute for reality.

But we live in South Park. If you could find a happy ending here, you could get it anywhere. (Seriously, even Jesus gets pissed at us sometimes, and he's _Jesus_.)

We were in his room, blasting (as much as we could with Shelley next door, anyway) this band over a set of ear buds. Stan had told me he listened to them whenever he turned Goth over Wendy. I kept pretty much all opinions I had about Wendy, the cheerleader/class president/co-debate team president alongside Cartman (fatass doing something besides stuffing his face still shocks me too) superwoman hybrid and their on-off-on-off-are-we-on-well-we-can't-be-off-twice relationship to myself. Honestly, I didn't see it. I just didn't get how Wendy got Stan time and time again. She had him twisted around her little finger and head over heels without even trying. When we got to high school, their relationship was on again (mostly for status quo purposes, I think).

I got Stan to myself when Wendy, the football team, or hell, even the entire town of South Park, didn't need him. But I took any part of Stan I could get, even if it was the odds and ends.

He sat against his bed and I sat next to him, one ear bud in his left ear, the other in my right. He was nodding his head to the beat and mumbled a few of the lyrics. He turned his head towards me and smiled.

And then I just looked at him.

Looked at his all-American grin that put the Best Smile in the yearbook to shame.

Looked at the black flyaway strands of hair escaping from underneath his blue, red pom-pom hat.

Looked at the warmth and strength and amazing that was right next to me.

And in that one moment, I knew. I _saw_. I could see a snapshot of me and him in every situation that brought us to this.

We were _way_ closer than guy friends usually are (but _super best friends_ are a different story), doing homework because Shelley was talking to her online boyfriend and "you turds better be quiet or I'll knock the shit outta you!" He leans over to look at my worksheet and I blushed because he didn't have the window open and it was a million degrees in his stuffy room, not because I felt him _rightthere_ next to me.

All the most overdone, random, insanely stupid moments that had ever or could ever happen between us ran through my mind.

Just another part of being a cliché (and in a terrible romantic comedy).

He turns away and gives a small smile to the wall instead. The last verse comes on and I have about twenty seconds to analyze what the _fuck_ just happened.

_Oh god. What is wrong with me?_ I thought as the song comes to a close, with the singer crooning about some chick that "_took it all and never paid for any of it and oh, how are you supposed to return a broken heart without a receipt_?"

…Yeah, I don't know.

Stan pressed 'pause' and turned towards me again. "So what do you think?"

And I could only say, "Dude, what the fuck was that?"

Stan's face fell. "What?"

"Dude…the lyrics sucked ass, the drum was two beats off the entire song, and _where_ the _hell_ is that called singing? It sounded like the guy had a cold and actually wanted to sound like an emo pussy wannable."

Stan seemed to consider all of my critique (like I actually knew what I was talking about), and then rushed over and hugged me. "Thank God I know someone who's sane," he murmured into my ear.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't _move_ (not that I wanted to, but damn Stan and his heroic strength! Freakin' football players.). And when I finally stammered a "wh-what?" it had been about a minute before things were going to get awkward, even for us.

I held him at arm's length and we both let go at the same time. My blush hadn't completely gone away, but if Stan noticed it, he didn't say anything. Stan blew his way-too-carefully-styled-for-a-straight-guy-but-goddamnit-it-_works_ bangs out of his eyes. "Freakin' Clyde gave me that song on a mix CD after Wendy decided feminists shouldn't have boyfriends because it 'defeated their message.' Man, whatever. Anyway, I almost threw my radio out of the window when I heard that crap. I told him it was a piece of shit and he just said I didn't have enough swag yet." Stan rolled his eyes. "I figured if you hated it, who gives a shit if I've got swag? At least you and I have good taste."

And that just floored me. We've always got each other's opinions on everything, whether we asked each other for it or not. And on the rare occasion that we disagreed, we never let it really affect anything. He trusted my judgment on something as stupid as a song and as important as whether or not he should wear his hat to school. I convinced him to leave it off for one day and decided that if I valued my mortality, I wouldn't do that again. I had failed the quiz on Hannah Montana's love interests that day because whoa, Stan's _hair_, and I'm pretty sure my mom wouldn't be above killing me over an F.

…I needed to get out of there.

"Um, hey, I-I got to go," I said, standing up and heading towards the door.

"Huh? Wait, Kyle!" he grabbed my arm before I got too far and a tingle went up my spine and _no, no, no, no,_ NO. "Wait a sec." he said softly, letting go of my arm. He went to the corner of his room and grabbed a neatly wrapped package (probably his mom's work. Stan can't wrap for shit.) and held it out to me. "Uh, here. Just in case I can't make it to your house on your birthday."

I remember that, (of course) on one of the days we've unfailingly spent together since _ever_, he has a football game. And the football team doesn't care that the star quarterback's best friend has suddenly realized something terrible (and wonderful) about said quarterback and needs someone to talk to about this. (Who are you supposed to talk to when you can't talk to your best friend?)

I just looked at the bright wrapping paper and the curled ribbon on top. Here is Stanley Marsh, who's been with me since the beginning of everything, who knows calling each other 'super best friend' makes us sound like total fags, but says it anyway, whose the "oh my god, they killed Kenny!" to my "you bastards!", whose stereotypical jock (but oh, how he makes it look so _good_) completes my type-a dork, and thisisnothappening.

"O-Oh." He freakin' remembered. It would be so much easier to think of him as a douche if he didn't.

"Yeah, happy early birthday, dude," he smiled, holding out his arms for a hug.

Aw, fuck.

"Uh," I start, sweaty hands on the bottom of this too-bright present and don't make a move towards him. He steps forward and invades my personal space anyway, giving me a hug again.

And why the hell does this particular moment feel so gut wrenching?

He lets go way too frickin' late for my heart to jumpstart again and just smiles. Just. Smiles. He doesn't deserve the right to smile! Why is he doing this to me?

"Yeah. Anyway, I know you have to go, so…"

"Yeah. Yeah. Um, see you."

"Bye."

And then I left.

And that is how I learned to make awkward exits.

* * *

**A/N **The status of this is up in the air. Depends on if anyone likes it, I guess. Haha.


End file.
